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"Kill me before the war is over, will you?" Tavington said, remembering the promise Martin had made at Fort Carolina. He snorted. "It appears that you are not the better man."
Martin kneeling like a condemned man on an executioner's scaffold, sat perfectly still with the musket across his lap. He could feel Tavington measuring the final stroke. And knew that in a moment he would feel the flash of the blade against the side of his neck, but he made no effort to resist.
But when he heard the blade slicing through the air, he ducked to the side with surprising speed and, in the same motion, brought the musket up and around. He buried the bayonet in Tavington's gut and pushed it through him.
Tavington's swollen face opened wide in surprise.
"You're right," Martin said, struggling to his feet and pulling the blade out of his own stomach with a grunt. "My sons were better men."
He put the tip of the bayonet against Tavington's throat and stared into his icy blue eyes. Both of them were covered in blood and dirt, weakened by their injuries. But Martin was stronger. He plunged the blade into Tavington's windpipe and, a moment later, gave it a sharp twist. He stood there looking into the monster's eyes until the last drop of life had drained out of them.
When he staggered away, Tavington was dead, but still on his feet. He had slumped forward on the musket, which kept him propped up. Martin left him that way because it seemed an undignified way to die, a gruesome end for a gruesome man.
Excerpt from the novel 'The Patriot' by Stephen Molstad
January, 17th 1781In the early morning of January, 17th 1781 a sharp wind was driving rain clouds ahead that darkened the sky above the small farm house not far from Cowpens in a disquietingly swift manner.
The two inhabitants, however, didn't seem to be overly disturbed by the upcoming bank of clouds as they attended to their daily tasks. At this time of the year a cold and rainy day was nothing unusual.
Martha Kindly chafed her hands when she stepped out of the hen house. She cast a scowl at the restless sky. It wasn't for the bad weather in itself that she minded, it were the unpleasant effects it brought along that caused her trouble. Now that the temperatures had fallen to their lowest point of the year, she was plagued with pain. The north winds always brought a most disagreeable sharpness with them that made one freeze deep down inside. Not long ago the cold would not have affected her, but these days she had grown quite sensitive to changes in the weather.
This morning, her joints had been aching badly when she had woken up before her usual time. A look out of the window had told her quickly why. There had been no point for her to stay in bed any longer. She needed to be moving to drive away the painful stiffness. Thus, they had more or less voluntarily started their day earlier as usual.
Martha had not uttered one word of complaint, yet her companion had read her early bustle along with her grimly composed face just the right way. And even though it was an ordinary day of the week, Martha had not rejected the considerate offer to take a bath. She knew that the warmth of the water would bring relief, but being a thrifty person in general, Martha would never have asked for it herself.
Now she looked appreciatively to the direction where the extra portion of wood was chopped to heat the bathing water. She realized that in her momentary state she would never have managed this work on her own.
With a mild expression, she glanced over to her diligent benefactor. A smile rushed over her face like it was an emotion she didn't allow herself all too often. Without meaning to, Martha's gaze had lingered on the clothing rather than the person, which made her quickly sadden again. These clothes were another painful hint at her deteriorating powers. Only a couple of years ago she had stitched the breeches and the shirt for her son. It had been one of her last big needlework undertakings. She remembered well the trouble it had been just to finish it. Today, there was no thinking of tackling such a large-scale work with needle and thread. Of course, she still could mend some minor flaws or fix a button, if she cared to attend to it on one of those days when the pain in her fingers would not harass her. But even then, her visual acuity would place a limit on her work.
Martha sighed silently and told herself to take comfort in the fact that the clothes did at least render some good service to the person who was wearing them now and was pleased to see that in return they were kept in good order. She kept watching the powerful, fluid movements with which her helper chopped the wood into logs and chips. Indeed, those movements seemed to be carried out with such lightness that one was deceived into believing it might be easy work.
Without any doubt, Martha would have preferred to watch her own son chopping the wood. The memory of George brought tears to her eyes. Why did he have to go? She missed him bitterly. And still within her sorrow, Martha felt her bad conscience welling up to the surface. Everyone had to carry their burden. There was no reason why she would not bear it with dignity. She bit her lip and willed the tears away. For sure, her avid helper had suffered just as badly under the separation from George, but Martha hardly ever saw evidence of it. Martha was well aware that she ought to consider herself lucky to have found such attentive and very able support.
Observing the pile of firewood growing, Martha started to feel selfish. She knew well that it required a great deal of work to set up everything for a bath. Bringing out the tub, chopping the wood, carrying bucket upon bucket of water, boiling it, refilling it - it was all done without even the slightest insinuation of a complaint. And to make it worse, all the effort threatened to be rewarded with a cold shower from above. Suddenly she wished she had never agreed to it. Martha disliked the idea of burdening her friend.
Friendship. An introverted smile returned to her, merely showing in her eyes. That's what the two of them had developed during the recent years. Martha would have loathed to see it change into something based on compassion and obligation because of her own deficiencies. Would their friendship still be of the same quality if she could no longer contribute her share, if she took more than she could give?
If Martha's payment had been a simple 'thank you,' she could have been sure of its appreciation. But to do so would have meant to admit her own incapability. It was like she gave up a part of her independence with every favor she received. It was a new kind of gratefulness that Martha would still have to learn. It made a difference whether one expressed one's thanks out of mere politeness or whether one actually owed a person a dept of gratitude. Martha wasn't lacking in gratefulness, though. But she could not bring herself to actually show it, not yet, not as long as she refused to accept that she stood in need of support. No, she was not yet ready to yield to age. Displeased with herself she cleared her throat.
"Be sure not to dally away your time with the matchwood," Martha said somewhat harshly, in an attempt to obscure her actual strive. "It won't burn well in case it gets wet. I trust you to have noticed that there is rain on its way, haven't you?"
"Yes, Martha, I have. Of course," A calm and understanding voice responded with amazing politeness. The person who had spoken, ceased their current work and turned to Martha. Anyone who hadn't known would have been surprised to discover it was a younger woman in men's clothing who gave Martha a comforting smile now.
Helen Hoffman had learned to read Martha's occasional testiness of late and how to deal with it. It was fairly easy to tell what ailed her, especially on a day like that. What would it help to take personal offense at this passing irritability that was clearly caused by suffering? All the more as Helen was aware that she herself owed a lot to her. Helen was content that after a bath Martha's mood would lighten considerably. "Don't worry," she assured serenely, intent to dispel Martha's misgivings, "I shall be done here soon."
The last words got lost in a sudden peal of thunder that rumbled over the land, causing the grounds below their feet to quake. The two women immediately knew that their plans for the day had just been thwarted. Any crouch or placidity was instantly wiped from the women's faces, giving way to common alertness. For a helpless moment in suffocating silence Martha and Helen gaped northwards where the ominous rumbling had come from.
"My goodness," Helen said, her voice barely more than a respectful whisper. Everything about her indicated that she stood in due awe of the dark rolling noise. In fact, it awakened most unpleasant memories from the days of her youth, which she had hoped to have left back in Europe. "It would seem there's something nasty brewing." She cared to avoid using more definite terms, wondering whom of them she rather tried not to upset.
"I take it that this wasn't thunder exactly?" Martha inquired cautiously, inwardly wishing she was wrong.
"No, I'm afraid, it wasn't," Helen admitted plainly, a knowing expression in her gaze.
The clouds obviously had something in their wake that was much worse then blustery weather - war had finally been brought to their doorstep.
As if to affirm the terrible idea, a whole series of cannon blasts could be heard, pressing sickening vibrations forward to the women's hearts and stomachs. Each on her own tried to measure the distance that lay between them and the rumbling. No doubt, those unsettling detonations told clearly from a severe battle that was raging only a few miles away.
"Come. We'd best go inside the house." Martha said, trying to display as much composure as she could muster.
"What?!" Utterly perplexed Helen looked at Martha. It ailed her to see the old woman so terribly perturbed as it was a complete atypical trait of her. Admittedly, this time war had come into much closer range than ever before. And yet, Helen couldn't help but feeling reluctant to abandon their day work and go inside. It was like they yielded to the dictate of war, which they had avoided to get involved with so thoroughly until now. "They are near, " Helen stated. "But not so near that we needed to fear some cannon balls finding their way to our yard by mistake. I don't think we're in immediate danger," Helen said reassuringly, not failing, though, to tighten her grip on the axe. She felt disgusted with the sudden approach of violence and destruction of which the sinister background noise kept boding. Even though she didn't know what she might ever do against a possible attack with a simple farmer's tool, she knew for sure that she would make use of everything that was at her disposal to keep any kind of trouble at bay.
"They must be somewhere near the burnt mansion," Martha tried to locate their whereabouts like it helped her to calm down by imagining them at a definite place. It seemed to work for her as she went on in manner that was much more like her. "Men!" Disapprovingly she shook her head. "What a silly idea to fight a battle in these conditions. Are they so eager for blood that they couldn't wait for some better weather?"
Despite the basic gravity of the situation, Helen couldn't help but feeling amused with the way Martha's mind worked and had to stifle a laughter. That was the Martha she knew.
"That's no laughing matter!" Helen got sharply reprimanded at once. "Be sure to hurry and follow me back into the house", Martha ordered in resolute manner. When she saw the frown of reluctance in the younger woman's face she gave a swift shrug of her shoulders and added: "On the purpose to prepare some of your remedies, of course. When this battle is over and the men return they surely need all the help they can get. I'm afraid, though, we'll have to bring it to them as they will hardly ever ask for it."
Helen, who had turned all serious again, nodded slowly. "Alright," she voiced her consent, secretly wondering if Martha had truly found back to her practical-mindedness or if she was just a good pretender, hiding her fear behind busyness. However, her suggestion to compile medicine and bandages sounded reasonable. "I shall quickly gather up the wood and then I'll join you."
"Fine." With that, Martha Kindly could be seen heading straight towards the little hut, closing the door scrupulously behind her.
Helen mutely took notice of it, merely raising a brow. 'So much for that,' she skeptically thought to herself and wanted to finish her work as promised, when another stiff breeze blew boldly in her face and almost took her hat off. Helen swiftly grabbed for it and stared angrily back. Beneath the cold on her skin that could not bother her, she felt a chill deep down inside that had the power to make her quiver.
In a downright challenging way, chilly gusts kept teasing her. It was as if they had been sent to test her. How long would she dare to defy the most grim of all winds? Her concern for war and its outgrowths paled to insignificance in the face of another power that had again and again taken influence on Helen's life thus far.
'Heed the north winds mighty gale,
lock the door and drop the sail.'
The little rhyme rushed through her head as if wind itself had whispered it in her ear, command and warning in one. It was just a small part of an education she'd once passed through in utter secrecy. The north winds were not to be underestimated.
Helen remembered the lessons well. The north, home of the lightless night, dedicated to the dark powers – not necessarily evil by their nature, but it took some strength and practice to face the fear they could evoke. Everyone who had only just walked a few steps on this path was well advised to mind them. It would seem that Martha, who wasn't possibly acquainted to these rules and rites in any way, had understood the message. Helen considered herself advanced.
"I'm not afraid of you!" she declared through gritted teeth. Whatever was to come, she felt prepared to hold her ground.
At this very moment, an unexpected strong waft eventually took her hat and let it dance away across the yard. Helen was left standing with her now open hair, blowing wildly in the wind as first rain drops started to fall down on her.
"I am not afraid," she repeated firmly, making very clear that her near retreat was not for cowardice but for the sake of the firewood alone. Only then Helen, too, made for the sheltering warmth inside the farm house.
When she entered, Helen was prepared to receive another taste of Martha's discontent. But strangely she was spared the usual censure. No 'See? I told you so.' in regard of her hair in disarray along with her dampened clothes would come from Martha's lips. The old woman left it at a quick yet reproachful look, as she was markedly engaged in her current doing. In fact, Helen was surprised to see how far Martha had already gotten in her endeavor to bring things together.
"You surely don't expect me to go as long as a pitched battle is ragging, do you?" Helen asked a bit warily, not sure what to make of the impressing display of Martha's avidness.
At this, the old woman let up from her action and took a deep breath. "I do not expect you to go there at all." Martha declared all serious, however, she appeared somewhat hesitant to actually look at Helen as if afraid not to stand the immediate confrontation.
"Pardon?" Helen was outright alarmed now.
Martha Kindly assumed a proud attitude and resolutely turned around. "I think it should be my turn to accept this task." Martha said with frightening certainty that left no room for any objection.
For a moment, Helen stood dumbfounded, as if she refused to believe it. And even before she could throw in one word of protest, Martha gave her such a determined look, that Helen knew at once the matter was not to be discussed. The old lady had made up her mind.
Martha could see well, that Helen did not approve of the decision and was rather glad that Helen did not try to argue her out of it. She was only half as certain about it as she would let show. In an attempt to turn away from this particular subject, Martha said, "If you would be so kind and see through the medicine yourself as you know better what might come in handy."
"Sure," Helen uttered a little breathlessly, still baffled about Martha's heroic plan. But then she saw that Martha was most probably right. This was perhaps the only way to step up to war – with a caring hand. Helen felt ashamed. Once she had learned with her own eyes that war was an eerie thing of unbridled power that could evoke a never-seen brutal side of any person, who happened to stand face to face with it. She couldn't believe it that for one moment outside there she had contemplated using violence herself.
With this insight and animated by Martha's unceasing bustle, Helen soon set to work as well. With expert's eye, she saw through a various assortment of herbs, tinctures, essences, ointments. When she had made a choice, Helen cared to give detailed explanation to Martha how to correctly use them. There were so many factors one needed to take into account, when choosing the right medicine. Helen swamped Martha with instructions. And while she could observe Martha following the briefing attentively, Helen couldn't help feeling that the more information she gave, the more confused Martha got. Would she remember it all properly in case of emergency, which Helen had no doubt Martha would be confronted with only too soon?
Last but not least Helen pointed at four bottles of alcohol. "For disinfections or… just to grant a poor fellow a last sip. Whatever the circumstances may require. You will have to decide that according to the situation at hand." Helen saw Martha's uneasiness growing. The idea that all the effort might be in vain, caused the old lady to swallow hard. It was clear as daylight that Martha would quickly be all but overcharged. Helen felt she would be of much greater help if she herself would be on the scene of action. There was no way she could avoid to take the supposedly decided matter up again.
"Honestly, Martha, I really don't like the idea of letting you go there all alone."
Martha hove a sigh. "Me neither," she admitted quietly.
"Then, by all means," Helen laid her hand firmly on Martha's arm, as if to shake her up, "let me do that!"
"No, Helen!" Martha protested vehemently, shaking off Helen's touch. "Even less than exposing myself to danger I like the idea of you doing so…" unable to express her precise concern, Martha suddenly broke down in her speech. She took Helen's hand into hers and held it with gentle pressure, looking Helen straight in the eyes. 'There's a fair chance one might not return. It shouldn't be the younger one of us, darling, you still have a life to live ahead of you.' Leaving these thoughts unspoken, Martha cleared her throat to go on, "And besides, I do not intend to go there alone. Come, let us request His blessing."
Eventually Martha let go of Helen, joined her hands and lowered her head. She was done debating. Helen wanted to pull out her hair. This was clearly a victory of stubbornness over reason. And there was little she could do against it. She saw Martha nervously twiddling with her fingers and understood it was her turn to put this request down in words.
"Give me a moment, please. I, too, can't do that extempore." Helen tried to delay things. It was a helpless attempt to gain some more time.
"That's all right, Helen. Take all the time you need," Martha said without looking up. She remained perfectly still, gathering her powers for the things that were to come.
Now it was Helen who spread disquiet when she started to walk up and down the room apparently without any distinct aim.
First of all she poured herself a glass of water. However, she never took a sip from it as her restless gaze fell on a certain vial among a collection of bottles and flagons. Helen put the glass down and went over to the shelf to fetch for the vial. She removed the cork and smelled the exhaling scent. Lavender. Yes, a little relaxation could not be amiss. With a short side glance on Martha, who wasn't likely to take further notice of her doing, Helen placed the open vial on the window sill at the far opposite side of the glass.
Having settled this, she casually reached into her right pocket and brought out a small white pebble. Her thumb gently stroked over its smooth surface, before the rest of her fingers began to fiddle with the stone as if it helped to get her thoughts in order. Not long and Helen had strolled back right in the middle between the untouched glass of water and the vial. She turned the stone in her hand a last time over before she put it on top of a pile of books. She did it in such indifferent manner that one might have thought she just wanted to get rid of it. In fact, the water, vial and stone built a perfect triangle in the room.
By now there was only one thing missing to complete the constituent parts of an old mighty rite, which she just couldn't resist to perform in view of the evil spirits of war, that had come so menacingly close. Thus, Helen lit a candle and put it opposite the stone, so that all four items lay in their correct order on an imaginary circle that safely enclosed the table with bandages and medicine where Martha and she would sit down to pray. Content with the arrangement, Helen took her seat and readied herself to speak.
"Dear Lord,
We've heard the sounds from the battlefield and our minds draw awful pictures already. We feel we should help and have gathered everything we consider to be helpful.
Yet I suppose all this can hardly be more than a drop in the bucket.
Still, it is a drop, given with the best of intentions.
See to it that it will reach those who stand in need.
I guess, men of both sides have asked your protection and aid before the battle.
Now I ask you to hear their cries, not regarding their color of uniforms.
And please, listen carefully for they might be too weak to speak loud and clear.
Whoever will take the victory, I trust you to be merciful enough not to forget the conquered and stand by the weak.
And even though they all may have become murderers, I ask you to be lenient.
I am well aware that you won't save all the lives, but perhaps you want to reconsider and at least diminish the casualties.
I know, you have the power to do it.
So, I ask for those who should be given a second chance.
I'm thinking of a father or the only son of a family or simply someone who hasn't settled things in this world yet.
Any reason is good enough to save a life.
Have mercy on them.
What else can I say?
They're just men.
You know how they are.
Please, forgive them…"
"… as you may want to forgive this daughter of yours her deplorable lack of humbleness when talking to you." Martha suddenly intervened pointedly. Seriously intent on bringing this most peculiar prayer to an end, she quickly closed with: "Amen."
"Amen." Helen submitted to the early end of her willful entreaty, a slight case of sulk showing in her face.
Martha met her with a censorious look. "Should I ever wonder why we live separated from the village, remind me to have you saying a prayer. I shall remember at once why we live alone. Gracious Goodness, Helen! Reverend Wilson would be upset with reason. Don't you have any decency in the face of the Lord that you dare to speak so bluntly to Him?"
"The Lord like no other does know my thoughts anyway. Why would I hide them in my prayers? You see, I am just trying to be honest in the face of the Lord. What's not to like?"
"What's not to like?!" Martha repeated, scandalized at such carefree attitude. "You cannot well beg the Almighty to raise people from the dead."
"No?" Helen assumed an air of surprise. "Well, who else, do you think, should I ask for this?"
"Jesus Christ, Helen! This is not the way His mercy is supposed to work. It borders blasphemy."
"Really? I call it pragmatic at best." Had Helen sounded rather ironically so far, she all of a sudden turned dead serious. "Numerous men out there are most possibly dead. Nothing worldly will ever trouble them again. But what about their families? What about those who are waiting for them, who are dependant on them? They are the ones to suffer greatly from all of this. Why not have the men come back and make them actually see what a shambles they have caused. And if the Lord should think my plea is too forward, I'm sure, he may find ways and means to chastise me."
Her words made Martha gasp and quickly cross herself. Eventually, she shook her head. Martha had learned it was quite pointless to discuss the subject any further. Helen had developed her very own way to look upon these things. Wordlessly, Martha put the bandages and remedies in a bag.
Both women spent a good while in silence to calm down their agitated minds.
Merely the sound of battle dared invading this awkward silence, causing it to appear even more sinister once the last cannon shot had ebbed. It was only then that Helen and Martha actually made contact again as they looked for their mutual confirmation that the fight was over. It was only soothing to some small extent, for it did also mean that the time to part had come.
The last explosions still rang in Helen's mind; she remembered this terrible kind of noises only too well and knew they boded of no good. She knew that the discovery of what had really happened would be tenfold worse. She had once seen what war could do to people. She wasn't sure if Martha really was aware of what was expecting her.
"Are you really sure, you want to go?" Helen inquired cautiously.
"I thought we were clear about it," Martha returned shortly, trying to cut off any further discussion.
"Yes. But still,… why not wait until tomorrow? It's raining in torrents. You'll be soaked wet in no time and so are the roads. Given the bad weather, it will darken much sooner than usual. Not to mention that there still might be isolated skirmishes going on…" Helen felt a lump in her throat, there were plenty of reasons why she wouldn't let Martha go. It preyed heavily on Helen's mind as she finally realized that she had failed to ask the Lord's protection for her friend. "Well,… you see,… what I'm trying to say is: It is dangerous."
"Yes, it is. And that is why I want you to stay here," Martha explained with steadfast voice. Her eyes, however, were full of concern when she went on in a most loving manner, "You see, I've lost my son, I do not wish to lose a daughter as well."
"Oh Martha," it affected Helen deeply to see the motives of her friend. Martha had never really got over the grievous loss of George, she would sacrifice herself rather than to take another blow of fate.
"Shh", Martha soothed her, clasping Helen in her arms tightly. "It's alright, dear." There they stood in desperate embrace.
Helen was not used to such emotional reaction from Martha. It got her an idea of how much the undertaking must weigh on her friend. "Let me fetch Nicolas for you," she offered. To improve the traveling conditions for Martha, was the least Helen could do.
"No, Helen." Martha rejected the offer right away, though. "You'll need the horse yourself."
Helen shuddered and fearfully gaped at Martha. It was true there was a chance Martha might not return. And apparently, Martha was even more aware of it than Helen. If Martha didn't return, the horse would be lost, too. Helen hadn't yet looked upon it this way. It embarrassed her to be the profiteer of such unselfish far-sighted care.
"Don't be afraid, my dear. God willing, I'll be back in a couple of days. Should He have others plans for me, though, I want to know you provided with everything you need to continue the work on this farm."
Helen couldn't say anything in return to this. It was Martha's unflinching way to keep things going. Helen gave a silent nod that amounted to promise. For the moment there was nothing left to do but to bid each other farewell.
"Take good care of yourself, will you?" Helen found herself urging on Martha.
"Sure, I will," Martha reassured her. "And I ask you to be careful yourself. Stick around the house and be sure to keep the door locked when night falls."
Helen took in the words, fearing it might be the last thing she would ever hear from Martha. Less than ever, she wanted Martha to go. But there was no going back, Martha had stepped out of the door and was on her way.
Despite the pouring rain, Helen remained standing on the porch and gazed after Martha whose shape was shrinking to a little dot, slowly melting with the environment until she had completely gotten out of sight.
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